


Furry Fashion

by plush_anon



Category: Guardians of Childhood & Related Fandoms, Guardians of Childhood - William Joyce, NDU, Nightmare Dork University - Fandom, Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Nightmare Dork University, Pitch is just confused, Proto being Proto, Proto leave them alone, Tarminator scarred for life, and stop harassing Pitchiner, dogs in sweaters, sorry furry fans this doesn't actually have any furry stuff going on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 10:13:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6190924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plush_anon/pseuds/plush_anon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Proto works on products for his Zibbet shop - particularly animal fashion accessories, with Tarminator as a convenient enough model. Meanwhile, Pitchiner tries to understand the concept of animal nudity while rescuing his poor little pug, and Pitch is just done with it all. </p><p>(No actual furry activity in this story - sorry furry fans).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Furry Fashion

Pitchiner came back from practice to the apartment smothered with the sound of Proto humming a distant, eerie cousin to “Teddy Bear’s Picnic” and Tarminator’s whimpering. His equipment clattered to the ground.

Oh Dear God, no.

**“PROTO!”**

“Hmm, just a minute LoveMuffin, Daddy’s almost - *snip* - ah, finished.”

“Where are you and what the fuck are you doing to my dog? And don’t call me ‘LoveMuffin’, eulgh.”

“I’m in my room, sweetums, come and find us.”

Pitchiner violently crushed, beat down, and suffocated the zing of pure terror that shot through him at what Proto could be doing that involved his poor little Tar, before he vaulted over the couch and into Proto’s Lair (he couldn’t call it a room, a room was for sane, normal people).

Proto turned towards him with wide eyes and a wider smile. While that was disturbing enough, at least he was wearing clothes that covered everything this time. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“What do you think of my latest creation?”

“What latest - look, where the fuck is my dog, you psychotic-”

“He’s in it, beefcake.” Spindly fingers squeezed their prize and held it up for display, glittery neon nails digging into soft, wriggly flesh. “And I’m not a psychopath. My connections to reality are quite strong, thank you.”

“Yeah, well that’s questionable some… days…” Pitchiner trailed off and stared in abject horror at his dog, stuffed into a weird sweater-ish... _**thing**_ made up of pastel pink and a shade of green that could only be described as 'vomit’, frilly pom-poms exploding around his head like weeds. “What… what is that?”

“Oh, isn’t it lush? I call it 'Floridian Spring’. I’m thinking of making it a go-to item in my Zibbet shop.”

“What the FUCK is that? And _why_ is it on my dog?”

“I just said what it is. Goodness, weren’t you listening? I think you need to get your ears checked. I’d be happy to do it for you if you’d like, though it will cost you - ”

Pitchiner shrieked as he smacked the limber, questing fingers away from his face. He danced away, before dancing back to tug his dog out of Proto’s arms. “You, just stay away from my ears, and keep the hell away from my dog.”

“Oh, poo, but he’s such a good model, and your ears taste ever so nice.”

The larger man whimpered, tried to shake off the icy crawling sensation that had descended onto his spine, and decided not to ask. His dreams were bad enough as it was; he didn't need any more nightmare fuel to add to the fire. “I don’t care what you think, you don’t get to dress my dog up like something Godzilla spewed after a Hello Kitty rave. Only **I** get to dress up my dog, and I don’t wanna. It’s gonna take forever to cut this off anyways. What the hell do you make this shit out of, pigskin?”

“Hmph. It’s a poly-blend fabric, you uncultured lugnut.” Proto plucked Tarminator back into his arms, ignoring Pitchiner’s vehement protests as he worked on detangling the runty little pug. “And there’s no need to destroy a perfectly good outfit just because you don’t like it. Honestly, I don’t know how my cousin puts up with you some days.”

“You know how, you hide under our bed often enough. Lucky for you you weren’t there when we broke one of 'em.”

“Mm, yes. Lucky.” Proto neatly pulled the clothing… **_thing_** from the squirming mass of pug, and handed him back. “Well, there he is. But if you won’t let me dress him, you'd better start. We can’t just let these poor creatures run amok naked, can we?”

Pitchiner sputtered. “They’re dogs! They’re supposed to be nak- they’re dogs!”

“Be that as it may, we have a duty to these creatures to keep them socially acceptable, and you just aren’t doing your part, Kozmotis. Fortunately for you I’m willing to pick up the slack."

"Dogs don't need to wear clothes, you creep! They're covered in fur, that's clothing enough, and why the hell am I arguing this with you?" Pitchiner turned to leave and barely swallowed back a shriek when he found Proto there in front of him, face a scant few inches away from his own. From the expression on the other man's face, he hadn't been entirely successful in containing his initial reaction. 

Damnit. 

"You're covered in hair too, Studly Doo-right. Doesn't mean you're allowed to parade around sans suit in public. It's a very pressing issue in today's world, Kozmotis - you really should be more educated on the subject."

"It's not even an issue. It's the opposite of a freaking issue, it's an ex-issue, and stop - trying - to - touch - my - dog." The lacrosse player batted away Proto's hands, only swinging around to punch when one spindly set of fingers smacked his ass. Proto ducked away and tutted.

"You know, if you were willing to do something about this pressing social faux pas you continue to foist upon poor little Tarminator, I might desist."

"No you wouldn't."

"That's as maybe, darling, now let me finish. I’ll leave him alone if you took control of his wardrobe. Of course, I would still offer up advice on what would look best - but I would move on and find another model. Just a piece of advice, of course, you don’t have to take it. Now, do you want to stay and join me in a bit of Soviet Plyometric Flexibility exercises?, If so, please divest yourself of clothing and get into position. I’ll help you fold your nude limbs for the first six - ”

**_SLAM!_ **

He huffed. “Well, that was rude. It’s not even like his little darling is that good of a model. Squirms too much. Not like you, Mr. Pickles,” he cooed, tickling the taxidermied chin. “Now, where’s my tape…?”

—–

Pitch came home that night to an unmoving Pitchiner watching some repetitive action drama show on TV. Well, at least he thought so - the oaf seemed to switch between staring at the TV and giving Proto’s door a death glare, jaw clenched so tightly he could hear his teeth grinding from across the room. The jingle of dog tags heralded the coming of drool-spattered shoes.

“I’m home,” he called, pushing the door shut with his hip. “I brought leftover pizza from the rehearsal, it should still be warm if you want - some.” He stared at the little mutt that was bouncing at his feet. “Um, Pitchiner?”

“Yeah?”

“Is Tar wearing an NDU hoodie?”

“Yeah.”

“How and why?”

“They sell 'em at the campus bookstore.”

“Okay…” he trailed off, looking at the little stinksack hopping around his legs. He set his bag down at the counter. “That still doesn’t explain the why, though.”

“Easy. I won’t let my dog look like a swamp monster toilet.”

“What? Pitchiner, what on earth are you -”

“And the sweater is loose so that if he wants to shrug it off he can!” He yelled at Proto’s room. “I won’t force my dog to wear clothes. If he wants to be a nudist, then he can be a nudist! This is America, if he wants to be naked he can be!”

“And because this is America, I can cover up that which offends me in whatever manner I so choose.” Proto’s voice floated through the wall.

“Shut up you - you communist creep and stop messing with my dog!”

“Come in here and make me, сексуален.”

Pitchiner choked in rage - or was that a sob? Pitch couldn’t quite tell - and turned to Pitch. “Gimme a box.”

“Excuse me? I’m not your - 

"Fuck, nevermind.” He got up and grabbed a box before storming back to his room and slamming the door, making the floor tremble.

Proto stuck his head out of his room, a string of beads dangling from his neck. “Shame you can’t slam into me like that, honeydew. It’d be better for the integrity of the apartment foundation.” A strangled battlecry answered him, and he descended back into his domain, chuckling.

Pitch was left standing in the middle of the kitchen, holding two pizza boxes and wondering what the fuck had happened while he was gone. He sighed, scooped up Tarminator, and went hunting for the remote.

If he was going to be left in the dark like this, at least he’d be watching something that wasn’t absolute trash.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: I didn't fully realize the connotations this title had until three days after I posted the original story on Tumblr. Ah, good times. 
> 
> Also, сексуален apparently means "sexy man" in Russian. I think. I saw it on a few translation sites. If it's something else, message me.


End file.
